


Princes of Winter

by ArtemisArcturus



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 09:32:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1935840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtemisArcturus/pseuds/ArtemisArcturus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robb Stark is not ready to be the acting Lord of Winterfell while his father is away in King's Landing, but the fate of the North and the lives of his family eventually fall on his shoulders. His best friend is Theon Greyjoy, the son of a traitor that everyone in Westeros hates. This is the story of their relationship when no one's looking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Princes of Winter

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and thank you for taking the time to read my story! All comments and reviews are appreciated. This is my first foray into fanfiction so bear that in mind if you feel the need to flame.
> 
> As a fair warning, this story *will* progress at its own rewarding pace to a Theon/Robb slash pairing. So far, all POVs are either Robb or Theon (this may change in future).
> 
> I own nothing. All characters and elements of this fiction belong to GRR Martin. There will be *NO* OC’s in this work of fiction. I am following the story as it presents itself in the HBO show, and I am trying to remain as true to the show canon as possible while filling in some holes that leave room for the Theon/Robb relationship. I *am* a fan of the books, as well, and I am very willing to receive constructive comments to help me do justice to the particulars of GRR Martin’s work.
> 
> Since this is a multi-chapter fic and it keeps evolving as I write it, other ships may transpire.
> 
> Thank you and happy reading :)

**ROBB**

 

The branches stung Robb's legs as he raced through the trees; a panicked thought passed his mind: _They're chasing me._

But no one was chasing him, not at his speed. Bran, his brother, was known for climbing; his sister Sansa could sew pretty dresses; and Robb’s half-brother Jon was the best swordsman of their age at Winterfell before he left to join the Night’s Watch. Arya, Robb’s youngest sister--well, Arya could do just about anything--except to stay out of trouble. Robb, with his taut muscles toned for speed, could run, faster than his siblings or the wind on his heels trying to catch him.

            He swatted sharp twigs as he swept past them. His long legs jumped and his body darted on instinct, avoiding the worst of the twisted tree roots creeping through the forest floor. He did not have a destination in mind; he simply needed to get away from the castle.

He needed to be alone.

            Robb’s plan was simple enough: attack the Lannisters before they could do any more damage to the Stark house. They’d tried to kill Bran not once, but twice, and had already succeeded in murdering Jon Arryn, beloved friend to Robb’s father, Lord Eddard Stark. Robb would not let harm befall his family, especially now that his little sisters had gone to King’s Landing and were so close within the Queen’s reach.

            But Robb’s mother, Lady Catelyn Stark, had other plans. She would spirit away quietly to King’s Landing to deliver news of the latest assassination attempt on Bran’s life directly to Robb’s father. Lord Eddard would present the assassin’s blade, a fine Valyrian steel dagger, to King Robert as proof of the assassin’s connection to the Lannisters. He would make King Robert see the truth... with any luck.

            Robb was obliged to agree with his lady mother’s plan, but he did not like it. He sensed a storm coming, worse than Winter itself. He wanted to meet this storm head on instead of pacing the halls of Winterfell like a nervous Septa. Instead, he would do as he was bid.

            But right now, he ran. He ran through the wolfswood, letting his anger and frustration and fear pump through his muscles and leak through his pores and exhaust itself out of him.

            Hundreds of generations of Starks considered the wolfswood a personal sanctuary; Robb's father, his father before him, and so on, retreated into the wolfswood to seek the wisdom of the old gods. Robb was no different; except that, unlike his lord father, he did not sit and wait for the gods to speak to him--he raced toward them.

_I will find you, gods. You can't hide forever._

The seeming eternity of the forest lulled his mind even as the woods made his muscles ache with every jump and hurdle. Robb's thoughts drifted back to when it all began--the day King Robert arrived and changed their lives forever.

            At first the king's arrival was fun in the way that hosting royal guests can be fun only for boys. Robb had so little to worry about, then. He marveled at the varieties of meat and mead, traveling mummers, and the ostentatious display of the power of the Kingsguard. Unparalleled festivities sprung up throughout Winterfell to host the honored guests, and Maester Luwin called the momentous occasion a "once-in-a-generation event," although Robb surmised that the celebrations at Winterfell must be nothing in comparison to the ones in King's Landing. He did not mind the mild humility of hosting a gathering among southrons who saw warmer Winters and better crops. He was proud to be from the North, with the blood of the First Men running through his noble veins.

            His veins were pumping now as he collapsed onto his knees into dewy leaves and cool, moist dirt. His breath hung in the chilled autumn air, but no gust penetrated the thick walls of the wolfswood to chase the steam away.

            He was alone now.

Robb’s eyes flickered across the treetop canopy as he rolled onto his back, letting exhaustion flow through him like a comforting warmth, and suddenly he was back in Bran’s room right before the fire diversion set by the assassin who nearly ended Bran’s life.

            Catelyn Stark had been holding her hand-woven wreath for the Seven, hovering over Bran’s bed. Her eyes were puffy and her lips cracked with grief. Robb had hated to see her this way, as a shell of the dignified woman he considered his lady mother. He had known it must be torturous to watch her own child linger in immovable sleep. He had feared for Bran, as well; but he became the man in charge when his lord father had joined King Robert in King’s Landing. More than that, Robb was effectively, in practice if not in title, the Lord of Winterfell in his father’s absence, and he attempted to rise to the monumental position with the cool, Stark-like grace of his father; however, he found that he had just as much of his mother’s Tully side as his blood boiled more frequently since his father’s departure.

            Robb’s frustration with his mother had escalated over the past few days as he watched the disciplined order at Winterfell unravel into mild chaos. Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell’s castellan, saw that the bulk of immediate business was maintained, but preparations for the oncoming Winter skidded to an abrupt halt.

Arya’s departure to King’s Landing with Sansa and his father was almost a relief for Robb; aside from Bran, she was the most notorious for seeking out the dangerous fun of the castle. Robb made Sansa promise to look after Arya—although, Sansa’s agreement, as sweet as it was, was hardly reliable. With his father and sisters gone, and Jon left for the Wall, the castle was somehow quieter and less like home.

Even in the calmest days of Winterfell, many pieces of business required the attention of its lord or lady. Robb knew this—so why could his mother not see that she still had a castle to run and two waking sons looking toward her for guidance?

            Robb was a man grown and could look after himself, so he forgave his mother for dismissing his company as of late; however, man grown or not, he was hardly ready to play mother and father to little Rickon, the youngest brother of the Stark litter. Scampering around the castle grounds at six years old was dangerous enough with mother, father, and five elder siblings watching after Rickon; now only Robb’s eyes watched Rickon when he could spare a moment away from appointments and sword training. Robb lacked the maternal skills necessary to raise and reassure the child, and he sometimes wondered if Rickon would not have been safer if he had joined his father and sisters in King’s Landing.

            As Robb watched his mother watching Bran sleeping silently, he confronted her at last about her neglect. The confrontation yielded no result but silence, and when Maester Luwin reminded her that she had appointments to keep as Lady of Winterfell, she had shouted, “I don’t _care_ about appointments.” A great part of Robb wanted to counter with, “You don’t care about your _family_ ,” but years of obedience and respect prevented such a childish outburst.

            _Family, duty, honor. Those are the Tully words. The Tully priorities. Are you less Tully than Stark now, Mother? Do you only feel Winter in your bones?_

His mother’s mental escape into anguish and prayers to the Seven required Robb to assume the practical duties of the lordship of Winterfell. His increased authority had attracted attention.

Ser Rodrik had been dining with them in the hall the first night after Lord Eddard had left for King’s Landing. While Catelyn kept vigil in Bran’s room, Robb had assumed the head of the table. Ser Rodrik’s raised brow was likely less to do with Robb’s assumption of the head of table seat than the seat of honor being held by Theon Greyjoy, Lord Eddard’s ward and Robb’s closest friend. House Greyjoy was notorious for its rebellion against King Robert ten years past; because of this, most people at Winterfell preferred less to do with Theon than the occasional nomadic lepers.

Robb disliked the way everyone, including his father, treated Theon. The pitiful glances bestowed upon Theon by Eddard were akin to those given to a scrappy, misfit pup exiled by its own ravenous pack. Too often Robb noticed his father give the same look to Jon, and he grew to wonder if that was why Jon and Theon hated each other so much. Others at Winterfell, like Catelyn and Ser Rodrik, saw Theon as a liability waiting to ruin them all.

Theon was joyfully oblivious to the pitied and suspicious glances cast in his direction. He spent his days smiling, basking in the arrogance of youth. Some days his entitled swagger grated on Robb’s nerves, but most of the time, he appreciated Theon’s company. If nothing else, Theon was honest to a flaw. Robb figured he needed someone by his side who could not disguise disgust or doubt. And, in a way that Robb could not fully articulate in his own mind, his friendship with Theon was an indulgence, a wicked little rebellion of his own. Robb did not have a great desire to stir trouble, but, after all, he _was_ seventeen and he wanted to raise _some_ of the Seven Hells before he was a full man grown.

Here in the wolfswood he was just Robb. He did not have to be Dutiful Son Robb or Grieving Elder Brother Robb. Nothing fell on his shoulders here but the weight of filtered sunlight and crisp, falling leaves. Back at the castle, his new duties awaited him. His mother would be leaving for King’s Landing at dawn with Ser Rodrik as her guard. The safety of Bran, Rickon, and all of Winterfell was entirely relying on him now without the slightest shade of pretense.

“I’m not ready to become a lord, not truly,” he whispered to the sky and any passing gods that cared to listen.

“You’re not ready to fuck a girl but it’s past time you did,” replied a voice.

Robb startled and sat up. He reached for his sword on instinct but discovered he had forgotten it back at the castle.

“Looking for this, my _lord?_ ” The smile was audible.

Robb turned to see a smirking Theon Greyjoy approaching him, the hilt of Robb’s sword offered.

“How did you find me?” Robb muttered as he stood up, dusting the leaves and dirt from his trousers. He reached for the sword and sheathed it in its scabbard, the comforting weight of it alleviating any passing anxiety.

“Lady Stark is looking for you. She wants to talk before she leaves for King’s Landing. It wasn’t hard to find you; all anyone needs to do is follow the grey blur.” Theon shrugged and gestured to a figure slowly stalking toward them from the trees. Robb’s dire wolf sauntered toward him; he marveled at the size of the beast, but he knew that his blurring speed was more impressive—hence his name, Greywind.

Theon winced as Greywind brushed past him without so much as a look and took his place beside his rightful master—or pet, however you preferred to see the man and dire wolf relationship.

It was Robb’s turn to grin, now.

“You have nothing to fear... unless I command otherwise.” Robb lightly stroked the wolf’s head between his ears. Greywind did not like to be petted too much, but occasionally he stood or sat still while Robb rubbed that particular sweet spot.

Theon rolled his eyes.

“I might go tell your mother about it. Oh, wait, I can’t, because _you’re_ the lord now. Looks like I’m at your mercy.” The corners of his lips twitched and the smirk was threatening to reappear as he sat on a large mossy rock across from Robb and Greywind.

“Thanks for reminding me, Killjoy,” Robb groaned as he resumed his seat in the leaves, running his hand through his rusty red hair.

Theon ignored the jibe and pressed on.

“You’re whining like it’s a bad thing. Do you know what I’d give to be in my rightful place as Lord of the Iron Islands?”

“That thing between your legs you call your ‘pride and joy’?” Robb mused.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Theon said, scanning the forest vigilantly. “I’d give my firstborn son, though. You can always have another ‘firstborn.’ Your manhood never grows back.”

“I’ll try to remember that,” Robb said awkwardly, trying not to think about Theon’s _manhood_.

“You do that. And while you’re remembering things, your lady mother told me to remind you that you’re feasting the Glovers at table tonight. Some business about preparations regarding all that ‘winter is coming’ piss you Starks spray on your banners. Nine years of summer and the idiots didn’t think to start fixing up Deepwood Motte until now?”

Theon had a point, but Robb wasn’t about to agree with him and slander a house in good standing with Winterfell, especially now that he was expected to be Lord Robb.

“You just don’t like the Glovers because the Iron Islanders have tried to lay their slimy seaweed hands on Deepwood Motte for years and failed every time.”

Theon stood up and gave an exasperated sigh.

“Robb, how many times have I told you, it’s ‘ironborn.’ ‘Iron Islanders’ is something you Northerners cooked up to make us sound as dimwitted as the Summer Islanders.”

He strode toward Robb, offering a hand to help him up from the forest floor.

“What would a Greyjoy need with a wooden bailey? Even a Clegane could figure out that you just burn it to the ground.”

Robb took Theon’s outstretched hand and felt himself hoisted up before he got his feet under him, surprised by Theon’s strength. He didn’t look like much, about as lean as Robb with slightly larger muscles in the arms and chest, but he lifted Robb with ease. As Robb got his feet and staggered back, Theon grinned again.

“Besides, I seriously doubt the Glovers have a wench worth salt wiving.”

Robb’s admiration of Theon’s strength was fleeting; he rolled his eyes and glared.

“You have no honor, do you?” Robb asked with a note of disgust. He did not know much about salt wives but he knew that they were not true wives like his lady mother. Robb did not care for the idea of taking a wife, but he felt that if a man did take a wife, it should be the proper sort.

“My father always said that even enemies wave banners of honor,” said Theon sagely.

Robb turned his head to look at Theon, squinting his eyes and staring in confusion.

“I don’t understand,” said Robb. “How can an enemy wave a banner of honor?”

“Sometimes people do bad things for good reasons,” suggested Theon, his face somber as he mulled over his father’s philosophy.

“But there are good men and there are bad men. Anyone in between lacks the courage to stand on either side,” Robb reasoned.

“No man sees himself as a villain, Robb,” Theon concluded, walking a little ahead of Robb.

 _Said the rebel’s son_ , thought Robb.

As they walked together, the burning scents from Winterfell wafted nearer. From the kitchens Robb could smell beef pies and roasting potatoes. His stomach growled with a hunger he had not noticed until now.

Theon paused at the edge of the forest while Robb walked a few steps further, before realizing Theon was not following him back to the castle.

“Won’t you be joining us at table?” Robb asked, hoping his candid exchange of words had not stirred his closest friend to anger.

Unexpectedly, Theon sported his smirk, patted his coin purse and pointed in the direction of the Inn.

“I’d rather skip straight to dessert, if my lord doesn’t mind.”

“Stop calling me _my lord_ ,” Robb growled, “but if it will keep you here, your lord _does_ mind. You are to stay here and help me present a show of strength to the Glovers tonight.” Robb fidgeted with his scabbard. He was beginning to feel nervous in anticipation of the hosting—this would be the first time he was officially on his own, and he needed Theon’s support.

Theon rolled his eyes as he looked wistfully down the road that would carry him to the Inn, then turned to face Robb.

“That’s the problem with you Northerners. You pride yourselves in strength even though a giant can be felled by a missed step or a drop of poison. When you become the true Lord of Winterfell, you should trust more to cunning than strength.”

Robb bit his lip to keep a string of disagreeable words from flying out.

“Wolf got your tongue, Stark?” Theon chuckled, passing through the gates with Robb and into the inner bailey.

“I, no... It’s just... I think...”

“That I’m making sense?”

“Maybe,” Robb conceded, and left it at that.

 

-          -     -

 

 

“Thank the gods you’re here,” Robb muttered to Theon as they sat at the great table awaiting the Glovers who were, at that moment, dismounting their horses in the stables and being led into the hall by Maester Luwin.

Theon gave a characteristic shrug, reaching for a handful of roasted nuts and tossing them into his mouth.

“Can’t say I hadn’t imagined those words coming from a charming wench this evening,” Theon sighed, turning to Robb from a few seats away, “but I guess you’ll have to do.”

“Shut up,” Robb said snappishly, reaching over the other plates and snatching the bowl of roasted nuts away from Theon’s greedy fingers, shoving it down to the other end of table.

“What’d you do that for?!” Theon moaned.

“You’re getting fat. Now just sit still, keep quiet, and look... useful.”

Theon scowled and sank back in his chair, whispering “not fat” under his breath.

The doors to the hall opened as Maester Luwin led in the Glovers, Galbart and Robbett, respective lord and heir to Deepwood Motte. Galbart was a notoriously good lord—strong, loyal, and steady—but that did not stop Robb from shaking in his own lord’s chair as he welcomed them to Winterfell with all the courteous language he learned from observing his father. After the courtesies were dispensed and dinner moved forward, Robb began to feel more at ease—until talk drifted to the Lannisters.

“I can’t say I’m unglad to see those gilded lions leave your home. It made me right uncomfortable to know they’d been parading up and down the Kingsroad with that mummer’s band of knights in tow. A southron pack belongs in the south; when they goes North, it stirs nothing but trouble,” Galbart said, lifting a cup and nodding at Robb and Theon with a knowing look.

For a moment, Robb panicked. _Could they possibly know about the Lannisters’ attempts to kill Bran? No, that’s absurd. And yet, his words ring so true. If he does know, Father would trust him, wouldn’t he?_

As Robb mulled over the possibilities as to whether anyone could have learned or guessed of the true situation, Galbart plowed on, his tongue loosened by the sweet mead refilling his cups.

“I hope you’ll forgive me when I say I mislike the Queen. That’s not to say I mislike her as a person. I haven’t had the pleasure of her acquaintance,” Galbart hiccuped. At this, a few others in the hall chuckled. Farlen the kennelmaster hooted loudly. Robb stared at Galbart steadily.

“I mean to say, I mislike any Lannisters sitting so close to the crown. Lion claws in King Robert’s back, s’bound to turn sour.”

Robbett, Galbart’s younger, brooding brother, rolled his eyes as he took the next refilled cup from Galbart’s swaying hand.

“Forgive my brother, Robb. His love of your family mixed with the drink arouses a paranoia in him that fades the sooner he vomits.”

More chuckles echoed in the hall, and Robb smiled, but only for the sake of courtesy.

“Lord,” came a voice down the table that had been silent since the beginning of dinner.

“What?” said Robbett, leaning past his brother Galbart in the seat of honor to see where the voice came from.

“Lord Robb, not _Robb_ like some stable boy,” said Theon, straightening himself in his seat. Robb noticed that he had hardly touched his dinner. “He is the lord of this castle in his father’s stead.”

“Last I checked, Ned Stark was still the living Lord of Winterfell,” said Robbett as he took a gulp of the mead he swiped from Galbart.

“In the matters of business which cannot be attended by his father, Robb deserves the title out of respect from his guests.”

“Respect, eh? For a summer boy with a little whelp to stick up for him? And who might you be, boy? His squire, or his wet nurse?” A chorus of laughter erupted from the hall, now; Robbett stared down Theon from the other end of the table.

Theon’s cheeks grew pink but he eyed Robbett steadily and stood up to proudly announce his title. Robb made a gesture to order him to sit down to avoid the ensuing controversy, but Galbart chuckled and a dribble of plum sauce rolled down his chin as he stuffed his mouth with a baked apple.

“Robbett! That’s Balon’s boy. Don’t you recognize a fish out of water when you see one?”

Robbett fixed his eyes on Theon like he was an insect.

“So you’re Ned Stark’s hostage,” he said, a satisfied grin spreading on his face.

Theon, for a change, was not grinning.

“I am Lord Eddard’s ward,” Theon said slowly, his fingers curled into fists.

“That’s a fancy name for a hostage but it’s still the same thing,” Robbett waved his hand dismissively and began licking some grease off his fingers.

“I have served Lord Stark as his faithful ward for ten years,” Theon said with as much dignity as he could muster, his self-control slipping through his fingers.

“Ten years Stark trusted a Greyjoy at his side? Ned’s gone soft. It’s a wonder you didn’t strangle him with seaweed in his sleep. No one can trust the iron spawn.”

Theon slammed his hand down on the table and shouted.

“I am Theon Greyjoy, only surviving heir to the Iron Islands, and you have no right to speak to me with such disrespect!”

Robbett tilted his head at Theon, almost curiously, and leaned against the table.

“What do you intend to do about it, _boy?”_

Robb breathed in deeply and dreaded what he had to do next. He turned to Theon and gave him a pleading look before raising his voice to the commanding tone of a lord.

“Theon, enough. Apologize to our guests and leave us.”

Theon stared at Robb as if he were frozen in time, his features stuck in a twist of disbelief and confusion. His mouth hung open as he absorbed the shock of Robb’s decision: Robb was siding with his guests.

Robb felt the guilt crawl through his veins like a poison. He hated to rob Theon of what little dignity he had left, but he could not risk a ruined alliance with such an important ally, especially in such dangerous times. What would his lord father think if he had lost one of the key defenses of the North? Over a _Greyjoy?_

“Theon,” Robb muttered, praying Theon would get the apology over with so he could smooth over the damage and fly to his chambers as soon as possible after this nightmare of a supper.

Theon jerked out of his frozen pose as if he had not been aware that he was still standing there. He looked over Robb and the Glovers and everyone else in the hall with a scowl of disgust and hurt before turning on his heels and marching out of the hall, the steps echoing in Robb’s ears like a stone heartbeat.

Galbart burst out laughing and grabbed another cup of mead; this time Robbett did not stop him, but instead turned to Robb with a satisfied smirk.

“Well, Robb, seems to me you’re fishing in troubled waters with that boy. Don’t listen to orders, rude to your guests, and thinks mighty high of himself for the son of rebel scum.”

Robb inhaled and exhaled, feeling Greywind’s fur bristle against his palm as an exchange of agitation flowed through both of them. Robb was growing tired of this politicking, and his tolerance for insults to Theon and, more significantly, his lord father’s judgment of how to handle the Greyjoy relations, had strained him to the breaking point.

“Theon may be headstrong but he _is_ the son of a lord. My father owed him the courtesies afforded to nobility, as do you.”

Robbett looked genuinely shocked as Robb expressed this dissent; his eyebrows came together as he thrust a finger in Robb’s face.

“That kraken is far from the sea and neither wolves nor mailed fists owe it any allegiance. It’s in their blood like the iron and salt they rave—“          

Robb glowered at him, disregarding the finger jabbed in his direction.

“Put down your hand, Robbett, or my wolf will be obliged to take it off for you. And what is in their blood?”

“Why, betrayal, of course!” Robbett touted in exasperation. “Flowing through their veins as thick as Weirwood sap. Mark my words, boy, that Greyjoy is not to be trusted. He’s out of control, he’s—“

“As loyal an ally… no, a friend, as I could hope for. I did not hear you address me with any note of respect as Theon requested, Robbett, but this time I will overlook that trifle as a mark of your bad taste and not as an act of disrespect against your liege lord and his son.”

The new taste of authority was thick on Robb’s tongue. He did not know whose voice issued from his lungs but it seemed to come from an ethereal place of pure power and not from the nervous belly of a seventeen-year-old boy. The tension in the air was ripe to burst and from somewhere within himself, Robb gave a low growl of hunger, despite the hearty meal he had just consumed.

At least, he thought he heard himself growl, until he realized it was Greywind doing the growling.

Robbett stood up from his seat with a look of comprehension, finally grasping the reality of the direwolf staring up at him. Alarm spread on his reddened cheeks as he stared down at Robb and Greywind with wide eyes and pursed lips.

“I mislike that wolf so close to my legs,” he said, his hand tremulously setting down his mead.

Greywind watched Robbett silently, not stirring an inch from Robb’s side, but keeping his eyes focused on the tall Glover.

“You need not tolerate him for the remainder of the evening. You may adjourn to your chambers, Lord Galbart, Robbett; you will find clean beds await you there, along with servants should you need anything.”

Robb stood abruptly and nodded curtly to Lord Galbart and Robbett before following Theon’s earlier path, briskly walking off the dais with Greywind at his side. He disregarded Maester Luwin’s hand clutching for his skirt and strode through the open hall doors, wondering where to look first for Theon.

           


End file.
